


Underground + Overwatch

by TetrodotoxinB



Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: (primarily the author's claustrophobia but also mac's), Abduction, Also unkind restraints, Bodily Functions, Buried Alive, Claustrophobia, Confined Spaces, Cramps, Day 4, Emotions!, Hallucinations, I don't think I actually specify that in the fic, James MacGyver's A+ parenting skills, Ketamine, Needles, Restraints, Risk of suffocation, Whumptober 2020, because I'm nice like that, but now you know, kind restraints, nonconsensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TetrodotoxinB/pseuds/TetrodotoxinB
Summary: Mac is buried alive and Murdoc puts some signature twists on the experience.
Series: Whumptober 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947493
Comments: 20
Kudos: 52
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Underground + Overwatch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NatalieRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NatalieRyan/gifts), [anguishmacgyver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anguishmacgyver/gifts).



> Many thanks to [aravenwood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aravenwood/pseuds/aravenwood) for her extreme kindness in being willing to beta all of these whumptober fills! Especially so since she's also writing her own (amazing!) fics too! Please go check her out and give her some love <3
> 
> And thank you Mandi for wiggling my brain into title development! You're a magician!!

The War Room is silent as the ransom video ends. It doesn’t take a genius like Mac to know that no one is paying — access to the Phoenix’s servers is too valuable and powerful a tool to give to turn over to a lunatic like Murdoc. 

Suddenly, the screen blinks back to life, Murdoc’s snarky grin six feet tall and nauseating on the wall screen. Everyone in the room jumps. “Whoops! Sorry, I forgot. If you were hoping that our favorite wunderkind would somehow, well, _Macgyver_ his way out, I assure you, that’s not going to be a concern.” 

Murdoc’s assertion is followed by a photo of Mac, barely conscious, with some sort of IV apparatus hooked to his arm. 

“He’s going to be rather incapacitated for the duration of this little endeavor. Remember, the oxygen runs out in twenty-four hours, give or take. Maybe twenty-two. Math is hard. Anyway, bye for real!!”

Jack scrubs his hands over the stubble on the sides of his head and stands up. “Well, Captain Nut Bar says we have, let’s say conservatively twenty-one hours, surely we can find him in that amount of time. Riley, whatcha got on that video?”

Riley’s mouth is pinched and she shakes her head. “There’s nothing attached to the file. Not even a time or date stamp. It’s scrubbed completely clean.”

“And the email?” Matty asks.

Riley shrugs. “I’m already digging into that but it may be a few hours before I can give you anything.”

“Make it an hour,” Matty instructs. “The rest of you — we need to retrace Mac’s morning right up until the point when he was taken.”

A chorus of “on it” and “let’s roll” signals the end to their meeting, and the various parties disperse to begin their respective tasks.

*****

Something is _wrong._ Mac blinks but it’s pitch black. Whispers filter into his consciousness, Murdoc’s voice promising… something. Mac can’t quite recall what, but unbidden images of torture — horrible instruments and gloved black hands — swirl until Mac is screaming. He can’t hear himself over Murdoc’s voice but he has to be screaming because his throat is raw. 

Mac tries to pull out of it, tries to focus on what he can feel — cloth, wrist restraints, and walls on all sides, even above him — and he hopes to use that to pull himself out of the vortex of fear. But his panic swells instead because this box, this _coffin,_ oh god, what if it’s a coffin? What if he’s buried? 

Mac screams and screams and succumbs to the onslaught of images in his mind.

*****

Jack punches the side of Bozer’s little maroon Kia.

“Hey, man! That’s my car!” Bozer shrieks. 

“It’s mostly plastic,” Jack bangs his fist against the quarter panel again and the dent pops back out. “There. It’s fixed. Besides, I don’t care about your car. I care about Mac.”

“I care about Mac, too, Jack. He’s not just your friend, but you need to focus and stop punching my car. Now where did his phone last ping before it was turned off?” Bozer asks.

Jack holds his hands out wide. “Here, Boze. It pinged here.”

“Jack, we’re in the middle of a field. You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

Jack growls. “Why do you think I punched your car? This is as narrow as it gets, Bozer. The most that Riley could clean up the signal was a hundred yard radius of this set of coordinates. She said we ought to be grateful she could do that at all.”

“So what are we gonna do? Search the whole meadow?” Bozer asks, looking around at the clearing.

Jack laughs bitterly. “No, this field is only about fifty yards across. We’ll be searching the woods, too.”

Bozer watches as Jack straps on basic tactical equipment.

“Were you planning on coming, nerd, or am I doing this all by myself?” Jack snaps.

Bozer sighs and pops the trunk for the tactical kit that stays there but almost never gets used. “Let me grab my stuff. I’m coming.”

*****

Despite the drugs that continue to diminish his mental capacity, Mac seems to have gotten a momentary reprieve from the hallucinations, though they linger at the edges, clawing their way back into his consciousness. 

He focuses, using what he knows is a rapidly closing window to assess and gather information. Besides the restraints, Mac also knows that the box is definitely a coffin — the dimensions and padding are rather specific. The resonance of the box when Mac hits, kicks, or shouts is rather muted. He concludes that he could be buried, but there are also other things that could create that particular dampening of sound. He tries to put aside the fear that he’s under several hundred pounds of soil because the fear will only hasten his descent back into the hallucinations.

And then there are the drugs. At first their persistence was curious, but as Mac moves his right arm in a particular motion, he can feel the discomfort and pinching of an IV catheter. But with his hands restrained and unable to lift his head, he has no way to remove it. Despite the unlikeliness that he could actually escape a coffin if he is buried under several feet of earth, he knows that he’s completely unable to help himself while he’s so compromised. It’s everything he can do to hold onto the observations that he’s made. 

Holding onto his sanity while in the grip of this drug is like trying to reel in a knitted sweater by a single tail of yarn — the harder he pulls, the faster it all comes apart. Slipping out of his grasp and floating away into the pitch black. Mac can see the sweater floating away, unfurling, a blue sweater down a tunnel of dark black that oozes and flows around it, tendrils of dark ichor sliding across the sweater until it’s covered and gone. 

Mac blinks in the darkness. He needs light. He needs something to stop the darkness. It’s coming, creeping, covering him, pulling him down down down down like the sweater. He’s going to disappear. 

He struggles, fighting the darkness as it crowds in and swallows him whole. 

His observations are entirely forgotten in the grip of the drug.

*****

“Ow,” Riley yelps, as one of her nails that had previously cracked from her anger-typing, finally breaks off.

“Got anything?” Matty asks, her attention diverted from the tablet she was reading.

Riley scowls at her hand. “Yeah, I found seventeen different VPNs that the email was bounced from — everywhere from Dubai to Warsaw to Sao Paulo. I’m still decrypting the last one, but I think we’re getting closer.”

Matty nods. “Keep it up.”

Riley looks up at the giant ticking clock on the wall of the War Room. 

Seventeen hours left.

*****

The pain is overwhelming and Mac is desperate to make it stop. His legs and back cramp and spasm, protesting their continued confinement. He tries to stretch to alleviate the pain, but there’s no space. If he so much as lifts his head, it bumps against the top of the coffin and that does nothing but remind him of his confinement. The pain fuels his fear and panic, and he thrashes, the padded cuffs digging into his wrists. 

The claustrophobia is a new experience and it steals Mac’s breath. The fear tightens around his chest and abdomen, squeezing like a vise. His throat feels tight, and although air moves freely in and out of his lungs and throat, Mac feels like he’s suffocating. The coffin is so small, so tight, it’s smothering him and Mac _knows_ he’s going to die. He’s going to run out of air in this tiny, tiny box, and no one is going to save him. 

How could they save him? How do you find someone buried in a box under lord only knows how much dirt? Mac can’t get out. Can’t get out. _Can’t get out._ And he hurts, burning from the cramps that his brain says are ants or maybe fires. Burning him up with lactic acid and mild acidosis. 

Mac’s drug addled mind doesn’t remind him of Jack or Matty or anyone else that might be coming for him. All Mac knows is darkness and fear and pain, and he screams and fights, using precious oxygen.

*****

“Matty, we got nothing out here,” Jack finally radios in. “We’ve searched out here for hours. No footprints, no tire tracks. I’m beginning to think we’re on a wild goose chase. Besides, why the heck would Mac be running out here in the middle of nowhere, like eight miles from his house? Doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re probably right, Dalton,” Matty says, and Jack makes a disbelieving face at Bozer. 

“Come again, boss lady?” Jack says.

“Riley has found the source of the email. It originated in the San Gabriel Wilderness area. I’m sending you coordinates now. Based on some of the other emails that Riley’s decrypted from the email account, we have reason to believe Mac is out there, but you’ll need to hurry,” Matty urges them.

“Yeah I got a watch, too, Matty,” Jack responds. 

And Jack has been watching the time tick down minute by minute, for every moment they waste puttering around in the woods in search of Mac. 

Fourteen hours left. Jack hopes that’ll be enough.

*****

An email springs up on the wall of the War Room while Riley’s typing. 

“Do you put that up there?” Matty asks.

Riley shakes her head. “Wasn’t me.”

There’s nothing for the first few seconds, just a blank email, and then a video file opens. At first it’s nothing more than a black screen and a soft quiet noise that sounds like breathing. Then a shrill cry and wordless screaming fill the room, and Matty and Riley cover their ears. 

Riley can’t turn down the volume and about the time she realizes that, is about the time she realizes what the sound is. 

It’s Mac. 

Between the unearthly screaming, he’s sobbing, clearly terrified in a way that Riley never even imagined him capable of. His breath grates, rattling in and out of his raw throat and snot filled sinuses. She turns to look at Matty, to see if she’s realized what it is they’re listening to yet, and Matty has tears on her cheeks, her eyes closed.

The recording continues and eventually the screaming turns to babbling. Most of it is incoherent, clearly hallucinations and nothing more, but there are moments where the meaning is clear. Mac is hurting and he’s scared. 

Riley doesn’t know what to do except listen and try to track the video back to its origin. So she does, letting the deafening sounds of Mac’s torment fill her ears as she works. She’s made it through the first few layers of encryption when the recording stops just as abruptly as it started. 

Her ears ring with the sudden silence. Riley feels farther from Mac now than she did before. Miles and miles away from where he is, far enough it might as well be on the other side of the world. Preemptive grief steals Riley’s breath and her chest aches. She does her best to focus because that’s what Mac needs right now, because if she does this right, she won’t need to grieve for him at all. 

She wipes her tears and cries softly, never taking her eyes off the screen. She doesn’t have time to cry. Mac doesn’t have the time. 

Twelve hours.

*****

“Jack!!!!” Mac screams, his throat raw and aching. “Help, please! Somebody! Can you hear me? Jack!!!!”

He’s still drugged and Mac can’t dislodge the stupid IV. He should be able to get out of medical restraints. It’s child’s play. 

_It’s a disappointment._

Mac knows it’s true. Lord knows he heard it enough growing up. The thought of disappointing Jack with his ineptitude makes Mac’s stomach lurch, though it’s long since empty.  
He imagines himself like a newborn babe, wailing for a parent, unable to move, writhing in his own piss and shit. But he can’t stop crying, can’t stop calling for someone, no matter how embarrassing it would be to be seen like this. 

James’ voice whispers in his ear, reminding Mac of his weaknesses — he let himself get captured, drugged, buried alive. He’s going to die because he can’t get these stupid padded cuffs off and it’s _not even that hard._ He’s just lazy. 

It’s no wonder Dad left. Right now, Mac’s glad he did. Mac would never live down the humiliation of dying, alone and crying, when he should have been able to fend for himself. Maybe Jack won’t even want him anymore after this, too worthless, too pathetic. 

“Help!” Mac tries again, but of course there’s no answer.

Mac doesn’t want to die like this. He doesn’t wanna die at all. He just hopes Jack doesn’t hate him too much when he finds him.

*****

It turns out to be surprisingly easy to locate Murdoc, but the capture isn’t as easy. Inside the cabin, Jack sees why — every angle of the cabin is staked out for hundreds of yards with security cameras. There was no way to approach unseen. It pisses Jack off immeasurably, but he’s really only concerned with finding Mac before it’s too late. 

Speaking of which, there’s this horrible radio feed of Mac from wherever he’s being held. It’s heartbreaking to hear his kid quietly sniffling and mumbling wherever he is and not be able to do anything about it. It’s enraging to know that Murdoc was listening to the sounds of Mac’s torment like it’s a Spotify playlist. 

“I’ve got the location of the camera. It’s linked to a wifi hotspot. I can give you a five yard radius of the hotspot,” Riley announces, picking up her rig.

Everyone heads out the door and follows Riley away from the cabin and towards the woods. Maybe fifteen yards past the treeline they see the antenna attached to the side of a tree. Jack breaks from the group and runs for the equipment. 

There’s a wire going from the array and leading into a small piece of PVC pipe going into freshly turned earth. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

“Guys, I think he’s buried!” Jack shouts, and within seconds almost everyone — Jack, Riley, Bozer, Matty, and most of the guys from the tac team — is digging furiously with their hands, buck knives, whatever they can find, while others head back to the cabin to search for shovels.

“Come on, Mac. We’re coming. Goddammit, where are the fucking shovels?” Jack screams.

They’ve dug down the area about a foot and half now, but no one knows how deep this hole goes, and it’s going too damn slow. The worst part is that Jack can only _hope_ that this is Mac and not a decoy. And it’s a horrible thing to wish, but if they don’t find him here there’s a good chance they’ll run out of time before getting another lead this promising, so Jack hopes.

After another couple of minutes three men come charging through the forest brandishing enough shovels and picks for five. Jack and several men from the tac team get to work. It’s hard work and the fear that they’ll hit a booby trap or something important is ever present, but either way, none of them seem to be able to slow down knowing that one of their own might be down there.

They’re two and a half feet down when the men from the tac team rotate out, fresh arms to dig and haul dirt, but Jack keeps working, propelled by adrenaline and fear. And the deeper they go, the higher his fear. What if this isn’t the place? What if this is an elaborate decoy designed to make them waste time? What if they’re wrong and Mac dies because of it?

They’re four feet down when Riley breaks out her rig again and begins searching the area for other signals, anything to indicate that they’re not in the right place. But just like before there’s nothing else. Jack’s arms burn but he can’t stop.

They’re five and half feet down, Jack’s lungs on fire and his back sending angry bolts of white fire down the outsides of his thighs, all the way to his feet, when someone’s shovel hits something hollow.

“He’s here! We’re here!” Jack shouts.

A muffled thud, barely audible over the sudden chorus of voices, and Jack holds up a fist to signal silence. Again, a thud.

Kneeling down in the hole, Jack shouts, “Mac?” 

Two thuds and a muffled, “Jack?” are returned. 

“Hang tight, Mac. We’re coming. We’ll have you out in just a minute,” Jack shouts. He can already feel the tears in his eyes but crying doesn’t get Mac out of this stupid fucking box.

The team begins digging again in earnest. When the shovels no longer clear what they need, they use their hands to find the edges of the casket — and god in heaven why is Mac in a casket, that sick bastard — and pry at the edges. Jack and another guy use their knives to pry the locks off, and there’s Mac.

He blinks at the sudden light, his pupils wide. “Jack?”

“Yeah, bud, it’s me. We got you,” Jack answers.

Mac moves but doesn’t try to get up and Jack's eyes skitter over his body. The smell of human waste he’d expected — no way to stay in a box that long without some kind of functions going on — but wrist cuffs and the IV… Jack’s stomach lurches.

“Lemme help you outta there,” Jack offers softly. He knows everyone is watching them now but something tells him that Mac’s not all there. 

When he reaches for Mac, that hunch is confirmed. Mac recoils and he screams, his eyes closing as he turns his face away from Jack. “Don’t hurt me! Please, please, I swear I’ll try harder! Don’t, don’t-” Mac’s begging devolves into sobs and Jack hurries to unclasp the restraints while Mac isn’t looking.

The not looking must be a ruse though because the moment the second restraint releases Mac grabs at the IV, ripping it free from his arm. _Fair enough,_ Jack figures. It’s obvious the contents aren’t benign and better the thing is gone. But when Mac swings wildly as he climbs out of the coffin like a shaky newborn foal, that’s when Jack puts up some resistance. 

“Woah, easy, Mac. Easy, kid. I got you,” Jack says. But the calming effect of the words is a bit dampened by the way Jack grabs hold of Mac’s bruised wrists to keep him from trying to murder Jack in his attempt to escape. 

“Let me go! Get the fuck off of me!” Mac shouts. 

It’s almost unreal, Mac swearing so forcefully. His anger is evident and Jack tightens his hold, turning Mac so that his back is pressed to Jack’s chest. Jack narrowly misses taking the headbutt Mac throws back. While Mac is uncoordinated and weak, Jack realizes that he’s underestimating the damage Mac is able to inflict. 

“Guys, we’re gonna need EMS,” Jack shouts up.

“They’re already en route,” Matty informs him. “What do you need?”

Jack readjusts his arms around Mac who’s weakly, but determinedly, struggling in Jack’s arms. “I don’t know. He’s out of his mind. I don’t know what drugs that jackass pumped into him, but until they wear off, we can’t just let him run around and hurt himself and everyone else.”

“So restraints?” Matty says.

It sounds so matter of fact, so obvious. But Mac’s just spent at least twelve hours in restraints, and it’s the last thing Jack wants to do. Who knows what delusions they’ll be feeding into by restraining him in this state? It’s one thing, one awful thing, when Murdoc does it, but friendlies being his captors, in a sense, is a whole other trauma to add to the heap. Jack wants to do anything else, but there’s not much else to be done. 

“Yeah, that’s probably what we need to do,” Jack finally answers. It’s one of the hardest calls of his career.

After some planning, a couple of the guys from tactical lift Mac out of the hole, and restrain him while Jack climbs out. Mac’s still screaming mad but his legs fold out from under him like a cheap lawn chair with every step he tries to take. Between Jack and another guy, they half carry, half drag Mac back to the cabin. Jack would just carry him, but Mac absolutely refuses to tolerate being picked up without a fight, and given the risk of dropping him, the drag-carry is the next best solution. 

As they make their way back to the cabin that is now swarming with techs of various stripes, Matty informs them that this deep in the wilderness preserve, EMS is still an hour out. They collectively decide not to hang around with Mac, especially given that he’s still under the effects of some unknown drug, and head in to rendezvous with the ambulance. 

After being the coffin, Mac’s reaction to the backseat of one the Phoenix’s SUVs is less than stellar but it barely takes the two of them to wrestle Mac into the vehicle. They peel out, leaving Matty, Bozer, and Riley with the tac team to search for Murdoc and gather any useful intel. Jack wants to box Murdoc up and shoot him into space, but right now all that matters is Mac, who’s currently gnawing on the flex cuffs around his wrists.

*****

The ride to the hospital and intake are as awful as expected. Mac tolerates the medical restraints horribly, screaming and thrashing, threatening to dislocate his shoulder with all the jerking. When they set an IV and draw blood for labs, it’s like the fight drains out of Mac and he begs — crying, shrieking, pleading that they don’t put that stuff in him again. 

Jack tries to comfort him and for the first time it’s like Mac actually sees him. 

“Jack?” Mac asks, his voice barely a whisper.

“Hey. Hey, Mac. I’m right here, bud. Hey.” Jack slips his hand into Mac’s and he takes it, squeezing like if he lets go Jack will disappear. Jack can’t help but wonder if that happened in his mind when he was buried in that tiny box. 

“Please, please don’t let them do this. I can’t,” Mac pleads, shaking his head against the papery hospital pillow. “I don’t want the drugs anymore. They give me hallucinations. Please, don’t let them.”

Jack blinks back his tears and sniffles, rubbing his thumb on the back of Mac’s had. “I won’t, Mac. I promise. This is just the doctors and nurses. They’re gonna help. They’re gonna make the hallucinations stop. You just gotta trust them. You gotta trust me.”

Mac jerks at the restraints and looks at Jack with tears running down his cheeks. “Don’t let them do this, Jack. Please, please.”

“I’m sorry. I promise this will be over soon. Then, no more restraints,” Jack says.

Mac closes his eyes while the nurse finishes hooking up the IV and sobs. Once the nurse leaves, Jack lets his own tears fall because this sucks and it’s awful and somehow Murdoc has found a way to make Jack hurt Mac. Of all this shit this asshole has dreamed up, this one takes the cake.

*****

Mac feels like a pincushion by the time they discharge him two days later. He’s had blood drawn more times than he can count — liver enzymes, kidney function, white cell counts, tox screens — and he is officially done with needles. He doesn’t have a phobia exactly, but at least before this whole debacle he wasn’t actively nervous every time someone approached him with a plastic tray. 

He tries to cover his fear about everything else by complaining to Jack about the immense number of needle sticks and bruising on his tailbone that almost became a pressure sore. 

“What about a warm bath in epsom salts at home?” Jack suggests. “I’ve got one of them donut pillows you can sit on in the tub, and you just soak in the warm water. It’ll feel great. I’ll even bring you little drinks with umbrellas in them.”

“Jack, I can’t drink for six weeks because of the strain on my liver and kidneys,” Mac reminds him.

Jack snorts. “I didn’t say alcohol. I was gonna bring you like chocolate milk or something.”

Mac smiles. Something like Ovaltine sounds immensely better than the crap they were giving him in the hospital. “I might take you up on that.”

Mac can hear the smile in Jack’s voice when he says, “You’d better.”

But of course, Mac doesn’t. He spends the rest of the day curled up on the deck, staring at the sky. Flashes of what happened boil up, seemingly out of nothingness. One moment Mac is watching a squirrel build its nest or finding patterns in the clouds, and the next fear and darkness seem to blanket him. If Jack notices, he says nothing, and Mac is grateful. He just wants some time to process. 

Periodically, Jack brings Mac food. It’s not a lot and nothing heavy, and though his interest is minimal, Mac obliges him by eating it. But eventually, the light fades and night closes in, chill night air overwhelming even the thick blanket Jack had brought earlier. 

“I think it’s time to go in, hoss,” Jack finally says. 

Mac nods. It’s a tradeoff — go inside for the light but be inside where there are walls, or stay outside in the cold and the dark but at least there’s no walls or roof. Mac knows that just like two days ago, when he lost his fight against Jack, he’ll lose now, too. Slowly, he gets up and limps inside, his entire body aching from days of confinement, both in the coffin and in a bed. 

Inside, the living room is not what Mac expected. The inflatable mattress that he keeps for guests is blown up next to the sofa and both are made up with an array of pillows and blankets.

“Thought you might prefer to camp out in the living room for a couple nights,” Jack offers.

Mac nods. He really would prefer it to his bedroom that feels too small by half right now. “Thanks, Jack.”

Jack, who has done a fair amount of wiping at his eyes while Mac was in the hospital, wipes his eyes again, the tears dampening his cheeks as he smears them on his face. He opens his mouth to say something, once, twice, and then shakes his head. “Come here,” he finally stammers and pulls Mac into a tight embrace. “That was too close, Mac. Way too close.”

Mac melts into the hug, resting his forehead against Jack’s shoulder. “Yeah it was. Thanks for coming for me.” 

“Always, kid. I’m your overwatch. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

It sounds as much like a promise as an apology and Mac hates that Jack blames himself for what happened. “You did, Jack. I’m safe. You did your job.”

Jack nods and Mac can feel Jack’s tears soaking into his shirt. The hug ends sooner rather than later, Jack can’t get too touchy feely for very long, but Mac knows that between the two of them there are likely many more hugs and tears on the agenda for the night. It’s not something he’s necessarily looking forward to, but given that it’s unavoidable, there’s no one better to have a breakdown with than Jack.


End file.
